


Maybe Next Time

by klained



Series: Forgiveness [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, F/M, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klained/pseuds/klained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor returns home to find out Sansa had a miscarriage. (interquel to "Forgiveness") prompted by bighound-littlebird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Next Time

He gave Stranger room to run as they neared home. Two months was too long to be ranging the north. Two months not watching over his little bird, now his bride and queen. And soon mother. Riding ahead of his small band of rangers he couldn’t help but smile. Sansa had come to him as he was armoring, and whispered that she hadn’t bled in over a month. He had blinked, confused. It was his duty to ensure she never got hurt, never bled. Why would it be remarkable that he had protected her?

Then she had smiled shyly, cheeks flushing in that pretty way, and told him she was with child. Without a word Sandor pulled her close and kissed her deeply. She had excitedly laughed in return, a sound she kept only for him. When he started to remove his armor, intending to stay, she stopped him. Told him it was early days yet. She might be mistaken – how could that ever be? – and besides, her little northern kingdom needed protecting.

And so she had sent him away for two months while their child, her little heir, grew in her belly. He wondered absently if she would be showing by now. It didn’t matter. He imagined little girls, all with her red hair and blue eyes. Trying to imagine sons he could only picture his brother, long dead but still a dark shadow over his past. He hoped they looked like her, redheaded and blue eyed. Or like her father. Anything but Clegane looks.

At long last, Sandor finally rode into Winterfell. Everything looked as he had left it. The master at arms was still training men, stable boys mucking out the stalls and carrying in feed. As he dismounted, the door to the great hall opened and there she stood. Her hair fluttered in the breeze of the door’s opening, and her smile…

He knew immediately something was wrong. Her smile was too small, too tight. He scanned the courtyard again, looking for signs of trouble, cursing himself for leaving his men behind. He stepped closer to her and reached for his sword. If she was being held captive Sandor had to be ready. Sansa quickly stepped toward him, her usual fluid grace. As she got closer he saw her face was a shade more pale than it should be, her eyes a fading red.

“Welcome home, husband,” she stated calmly. “And how fares my kingdom?”

He cleared his throat, hating these courtesies she desired in public. “Well, my lady. Your border villages are prospering in trade. On our way we also met men bound for the wall. They are strong and will defend the northern border well.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He noted when her voice started to waver. “Come, you must be tired.”

Sandor followed her inside, leaving the horse for someone else to suffer with. In their solar, Sansa stood at the window, back to him. When the door closed she turned, weeping.

“Sandor, I’m so sorry. I – I lost the child.”

Not even Gregor had ever hit him so hard. The wind felt knocked from his chest, his heart felt to be shattering within him. He studied her, watched as she sobbed over the child that never was.

“Are… are you hurt?” She shook her head. A wave of relief rushed through him, then guilt. She was in mourning for her – their – child. He knew there were courtesies to say, actions to follow in times of grief, but he only cared that she was safe, that no harm had come to her. “I…” What could he say? What was there to say?

She looked up at him. After a moment, her only words were “I know.” And she was in his arms, crying into the hard metal of his breastplate. He gingerly held her, not wanting to hurt her with the armor. When at last she settled, he guided her to the bed and wrapped her in the blankets. He gently kissed each eyelid, licking away the salt of her tears, then her lips.

“Maybe next time,” she murmured sleepily.

“Maybe next time,” he agreed.

Sandor quietly slipped out the door and breathed. There couldn’t be enough wine or beer in all the north to numb the ache in his chest. But he was willing to try.


End file.
